


Another Place, A Better Time

by castielanderson



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Human Castiel, M/M, Memory Loss, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielanderson/pseuds/castielanderson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been over a year since Castiel last saw Dean, and the reunion doesn't give him the closure he so desperately needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Place, A Better Time

_ Maybe someday, _   
_ You’ll be somewhere _   
_ Talking to me _   
_ As if you knew me, _   
_ Saying, I’ll be home for next year, darling. _   
_ I’ll be home for next year. _

\- Next Year; Two Door Cinema Club

_._

Life on Earth is lonely for Castiel.

It’s selfish, he knows, to wish things were different.  He made the mistakes, and now he’s dealing with the punishment.  However, if he had known – if he hadn’t been one hundred percent sure he’d succeed, he wouldn’t have wiped Dean’s memory in the first place.  He had been planning on his death, had been planning on him  _staying_  dead, and he didn’t want to put the weight of his suicide on Dean’s shoulders.

But he’s not dead.  He’s perfectly alive and perfectly human –

and perfectly alone.

Cas can’t get his grace back, and Dean can’t get his memory back, and this how it has to be.  Castiel sinned, sinned greater than any of his siblings have, and these are the consequences.

Castiel misses Dean.  He misses Sam, but they’re happy and safe, and Castiel tells himself it’s enough.  He can ignore the throbbing, gaping ache in his own beating heart if he knows the Winchesters are okay. 

Or so he pretends.

It’s hard, he admits, being alone.  It’s hard learning to navigate this world by himself, with no one to lead him, but he soldiers on.   It’s only been a year, and Castiel still doesn’t understand as much as he’d like, but he knows more than he previously has.  His social skills are still terrible, and he still doesn’t understand slang or a plethora of pop culture, but he’s improving.  He works and shops and owns a small apartment in Seattle, Washington, but that’s it. 

He’s surviving, not living.

(Most of the time, Castiel wishes he had succeeded.  He has no grace, no family, no will to live other than the punishment that’s been forced upon him.  Sometimes he wonders if it’d be worth it to try again, but then a shiver runs down his spine and he pictures his father, angry and looming, and he decides against it.)

.

.

Castiel works nights at West Seattle Psychiatric Hospital.  He wants to be a doctor, and he’s been trying to apply to medical school, but for now, he’s a nursing assistant.  He works alongside a young girl with short, mousy brown hair named Josephine.  She’s spunky and snarky, and she reminds him of someone too familiar. 

Most nights, they eat lunch together.  Cas doesn’t talk much, but Josephine manages to work a few words out of him from time to time. 

It’s approaching Christmas now, as indicated by the cheap string lights hanging around the cafeteria, but Castiel doesn’t feel much cheer.  He’s got no one to share the holidays with, and he’s not really a fan of Christmas in the first place.

“So,” Josephine says as she sits down across from him.  “Got any plans for the holidays, Cas?”

He shakes his head, and Josephine raises an eyebrow.

“You’re not going to do anything?  What about your family?”

“I don’t have one,” Castiel replies honestly, and he tries to ignore the heartbroken look that crosses Josephine’s face.

“I’d ask you to join me,” she says after a moment, “but I’m heading across the country tomorrow night.”

Cas shrugs.  “I’ll be fine,” he assures.  “Don’t worry about me, Josephine.”

She sighs, reaching for her drink, but she miscalculates and knocks it over instead.

“Son of a bitch,” she hisses, and Castiel ignores the way his chest tightens.  He pushes away his food and watches the clock anxiously until their break time is up.

.

.

Castiel doesn’t like pity.  He doesn’t like the way the women at the hospital talk behind his back, always so concerned about his well-being.  He doesn’t like the way the psychologists scrutinize him as they walk past.

Word got out three months after Castiel had first started working here that he had tried to commit suicide only recently.  A patient had vomited on him, and he’d gone to the bathroom to clean up when one of the doctors had walked in and seen his scar.  Some people guessed him a victim of a murder attempt, but the wounds are too obviously self-inflicted, slashing up rather than down, and when Josephine had asked so gently, Castiel couldn’t lie.  He told her the truth – he had tried to kill himself.  He promised everyone he was fine now, happy and healthy, but everyone still looks at him differently.

He hasn’t talked about it since Josephine asked him, and even then he only gave her that small bit of the truth.  He hadn’t said why, hadn’t said what made him do it, and he expects he never will.  The memory is still touchy, still too fresh and raw, and it hurts unbearably to think about it.

Nightmares plague Castiel often, but he does his best to ignore them.  Sometimes, he can’t, and he spends the rest of the day letting images flash through his mind – a sword, glinting with the light of his grace as it collides with his heart; Dean’s face as Castiel swipes his fingers over his forehead, eyes rolling back as his entire mind his modified; the burning face of his father as he breathes a shiny new soul into Castiel.

Maybe a mental hospital isn’t the best place for Castiel to work.  Maybe he shouldn’t be surrounding himself with depressed and schizophrenic and suicidal patients, but it’s a job, and Cas knows an income is an essential part of surviving.

.

.

Christmas comes and passes, and Castiel doesn’t fret too much over the celebration.  He spends Christmas night at the bar, drowning himself in alcohol.  (That’s one thing he likes about being human – the ability to get drunk much faster.)  In the morning, Castiel’s body regrets it, but his mind thanks him for the numbing feeling.

.

.

The New Year comes, and as people around him talk about resolutions, Castiel simply promises himself to try to work harder at fitting in and accepting the life he’s made for himself.  He promises himself to try and be happy, because it’s been far too long that he hasn’t been.

(That nagging voice comes back, tells him he deserves to feel awful, but Cas tries desperately to push it away.)

.

.

On January 24th, Castiel spends the day in bed. 

Dean’s thirty-six now, and Cas has lost track of his age.  For human purposes, Cas supposes he’s thirty-six as well, and he wishes it was true.  He’s got millennia of memories, and sometimes, he wishes it was his own memory he had wiped.  There are too many thoughts clogging his limited mind, and some days it becomes so bad he feels like he might explode.

Cas calls in sick, and he feels nauseous enough for it to be true.  His body aches, and his chest feels too tight to allow him to breathe properly.  He feels like he’s suffocating, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he was.

He’s heard it’s possible to die of heartache.

.

.

The rest of the winter drags out, but when spring finally comes, Cas doesn’t feel any different.

People celebrate the warm weather and the promise of new life, but Cas still feels like he’s dying inside.

.

.

In March, something strange happens throughout the city.

There’s a string of three murders, one after the other every consecutive Friday night.  Each girl is killed by her husband – brutally abused before the life is drained out of them.

And the catch?

Each one of these guys has been previously known as an outstanding member of society.  Richard Mark volunteered every weekend at a nursing home, serving dinners to the elderly.  Marcus Walters worked in a group home and took his patients out frequently on field trips, making sure they got to make the most of their lives.  Freddie Johnston ran his own non-profit restaurant, offering free food in exchange for an hour or two of work.

Castiel doesn’t pay much attention to it until the FBI is called in.

.

.

It’s six-thirty, and Cas is grabbing “breakfast” before his shift.  He favorites a small café downtown, ordering a sandwich and a coffee whenever he comes in.  He sits in the same spot every night he’s there, and he exchanges a word or two with the owner – a plump, middle-aged woman whose prime character trait is outstanding hospitality.

The bell rings as he steps inside, alerting everyone to his presence.  Only one head turns, and Cas stops dead in his track as he locks eyes with the guy.  His heart nearly leaps out of his throat, and he’s afraid he might pass out, because the guy looking back at him is Dean Winchester.

It takes Cas a second to compose himself and continue on towards his usual table – which is all made harder by the fact that Dean watches him as he goes, a look of confusion stamped onto his face.  Sam looks up after a moment, snapping his fingers in front of Dean’s face.

“Hey – Dean?” he says.  “Dean, you okay?”

Dean gives himself a shake and looks back to Sam, stuttering, “Y – yeah, I’m fine.  I just – I thought I saw someone – “

“Someone, like who?” Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head again.  “I don’t know.  I just – I thought he looked familiar.  I’m probably just losing it – sleep deprivation and all that jazz.”

Sam nods, watching Dean carefully for a second more before he starts digging into his food.

Cas wants to look away, wants so badly to turn around and pretend like he never stepped foot in this café, but Sam and Dean are sitting right there, and he can’t will himself to move.  He knows this isn’t good for him, knows he should leave and keep himself cut off like he’s supposed to, but it’s been long,  _so_   _long_  since he’s seen them.  He just wants this moment of peace, this one moment for him to feel like everything is okay again.  They’re here, and Cas can imagine he’s hunting with them, sitting awkwardly between them, not eating and running over evidence in his mind like he used to.

In the end, Cas stays until they leave.  He’s going to be late for work, but he doesn’t care.  He just sits, feeling the ache in his chest grow as he watches Sam and Dean eat and converse and engage in mannerisms so familiar Cas feels like he was hunting with them just yesterday.

Eventually they pack up, and Castiel feels a sense of panic go through them as they leave.  The bell rings as they head out, and Castiel chokes back a sob as he repeats a mantra in his mind – _“It’s for the best, it’s for the best, it’s for the best.”_

.

.

As it turns out, the café is not the last time he sees Dean.

He’s out getting gas when an old ’67 Impala comes rolling into the spot behind him.  Dean gets out of the driver’s side, humming to himself, and Cas wants to shrink to the ground.  It takes him a minute, but as Dean fills his baby up, he looks around, and eventually spots Cas again.  He stares for a just a second, that very same confused and frustrated look on his face.

This time, Cas doesn’t stick around.  He hurries to pay for his gas and leaves, the backs of his eyes burning, his throat tight.

.

.

After a week, Cas thinks he’s safe.

Surely, Sam and Dean have wrapped up the case by now.  There hasn’t been any more news about the murders in the papers or on television.  So when Cas walks into the grocery store and walks right into Dean, he’s taken completely off guard.

He doesn’t know it’s Dean when they smack heads, but when he goes down to pick up the groceries he knocked out of Dean’s hand, they come up looking at each other, wide-eyed and dumbfounded.

“You,” Dean breathes.  “God, I’ve seen you everywhere this week, and I – I – “

Cas holds out Dean’s groceries wordlessly, not trusting himself to speak.  Dean takes them from his hand, shifting his weight as he continues to stare at Cas quizzically.

“What’s your name?” Dean asks, and no matter how hard Cas tries to lie, he can’t.

“Cas.”

He expects this to strike a chord in Dean, to make some missing link click, but nothing happens.  Dean just nods, still trying to dig up memories that Cas had stolen from him.

“Well,” Dean sighs.  “You really do look … familiar, but God, I can’t place where I’ve seen you.”

“I don’t recognize you,” Cas says, forcing a small, awkward laugh. 

“Just one of those faces, then,” Dean says with a smirk. 

Cas wants to say something, wants to tell Dean he’s lying.  He wants to tell Dean everything – from pulling him out of hell, to the Apocalypse, to the year in Purgatory, to the suicide attempt.  He wants to tell Dean how all that time, he fell – from Heaven and into love.  He wants to tell Dean how much it’s hurt to let him go, and no matter how much he pretends he’s okay, he’s not.  Because he’s hopelessly in love with Dean, and Dean doesn’t have a clue who he is.

He opens his mouth, but Dean’s already speaking.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Cas.”

Cas nods, watching as Dean turns to leave.

“You too, Dean.”


End file.
